Night Prey

bent the spruce, found a branch two feet above the ground that would bear his weight. He stepped up, feeling the spruce sag, but hooked the lower bar of the railing with one hand, then the other. He swarmed up like a monkey, scuffing his kneecap on the concrete edge of the balcony. He waited a few seconds, ignoring the pain in his knee, listening, hearing nothing, then tested the balcony railing for rigidity.
    Solid. He stood on it, balancing carefully, reached around the edge of the upper balcony, grabbed the railing, and let himself swing free. When his swinging motion slowed, he pulled himself up and clambered over the railing onto the higher balcony.
    Again he stopped to listen. The dog had stopped barking. Good. He was now on the third floor, outside a room he believed was unused. He’d spotted Posey’s bedroom in a second-floor corner. This should be a guest room, if the moving man’s map was correct. And it wouldn’t be rigged for an alarm, unless Posey was truly paranoid.
    Hearing nothing, he stood up and looked at the sliding glass doors. The track was not blocked: that made things easier. He tried the door itself, on the chance that it was unlocked. It was not. He took the crowbar out of his pants, pressed the point of it against the glass, and slowly, carefully put his weight against it. The glass cracked, almost silently. He started again, just above the first point, bearing down . . . and got another crack.
    The third time, the glass suddenly collapsed, leaving a hole the size of his palm. He hadn’t made a sound louder than a careful cough. He reached through the hole, flipped up the lock and pulled the latch, and slid the door back. Stopped. Listened. Inside, he turned on the flashlight. Yes. A bedroom, with a feel of disuse.
    He crossed the room to the bedroom door, which was closed, took out the compass, waited until the needle settled, then ran it along the edge of the door. The needle remained steady, except at the handle, where it deflected. The door was not protected; he hadn’t expected it to be, but it took only a moment to check.
    He opened the door, half expecting the dog to be there, but found an empty hall, dimly lit from the lights downstairs.
    Down the stairs, slowly, listening. Nothing. Through the hall.
    Then: the dog’s nails on the kitchen’s vinyl floor, with a tentative woof. A few woofs were okay, but if the dog got out of hand . . . He reversed his grip on the crowbar, holding it by the flat end.
    The dog came around the corner of the kitchen, saw him standing there, barked. Old dog, his legs stiff, his muzzle hair going white . . .
    “Here, boy, c’mere,” Koop said, his voice soft. “C’mere, boy . . .” He walked toward the dog, his left hand out, cupped, right hand behind him. The dog backed away, upright, barking, but let Koop get closer. . . .
    “Here, boy.” One more step, one more.
    “Woof.” Sensing danger, trying to back away . . .
    Koop swatted the dog like a fly. The crowbar caught it in the center of the skull, and the dog went down without a whimper, just a final woof. Dead when it hit the floor, its legs jerked, running spasmodically on the vinyl.
    Koop turned away. No need to be quiet anymore. He checked the front door. There was a keypad next to it showing an alarm light: the system was armed, but he wasn’t sure what that meant. At the basement door, he again checked with the compass. Again, nothing. Must only be the outer doors.
    He eased the door open, took a step. Okay. Walked down to the bottom of the stairs, into the basement—and the moment he stepped into the basement, heard the rapid beep-beep-beep of the alarm system’s warning, a bit louder than an alarm clock.
    “Shit,” he said.
    One minute. He started a running count at the back of his head. Sixty, fifty-nine . . .
    The safe was there, just as the moving man said. He worked the combination the first time and looked inside. Two sacks, two jewelry boxes. He took them out. One sack was cash. The other was as heavy as a car battery. Gold, probably. No time to think.
    Thirty. Twenty-nine, twenty-eight . . .
    He ran back up the stairs, to the front door, the alarm making its urgent beep-beep-beep warning. He hit it with the crowbar, silencing it. The call would be made anyway, but if someone was passing in the street, he wouldn’t hear the beeping.
    Koop walked out the front door, back to the truck. Tossed the tools and the money bags on the front seat, started the truck, backed